The freaks come out at night

the birthday gang

My public transport experiences are as varied as the twists and turns Yarra Trams takes around all the nooks and crannies (Gram-a! Gram-a! Look!) of this fair city. Through my many journeys on Metlink's fleet of buses, trains, and trams, I've witnessed arguments, fights over the telephone, intolerable body odour, obnoxious grandmothers, obnoxious school children, charming elderly people, creepy starers, coughing fits bordering on TB-proportions, men and women on ice (the drug, not next to a Zamboni), Aboriginal people yelling over land rights, drunk old men singing, drunk women singing, drunk teenagers giggling, drunk 20-somethings sleeping, drunk 30-somethings pretending they're not drunk. You get the picture. When you're inebriated, you tend to take public transport, which, I have to admit-- it's a good thing. At least it means you're not cruising down the Monash Freeway at 100 Ks/hr.

I also believe that the winter months brings out the---the how you say... The Crazies. I guess it's the weather, the difficulty to 'find a park,' as they say, in the CBD. Whatever it is, in between all the wintry sniffles and sneezes, I am noticing the clientele of Yarra Trams gets weirder.

After a lovely Sunday arvo and evening spent with wonderful people, I wanted to get the crap home. I'm a working girl like woah this month, and I needed to plan for the week-- plan my lunches, plan my outfits, you know. The Fates were not hearing my pleas, unfortunately. I was privileged (sarcasm) to ride with one approx 62 year old drunken man on this particular Sunday night on the 55 tram back to my house. As soon as he gets on, we realise there's Trouble. At first I thought he was harmless, spent a few too many hours with VBs at the Pokies, and somehow has managed to get on the appropriate tram (good on him given his state of mind, hey?). When he started telling everyone to "f**k off" and "get f****d" and nearly started a fight with a middle-aged African man, tram-goers got a little 'meehhhhh' bordering on 'aaaaaaaahhhh.'

We then proceeded to stop at Lonsdale Street for approximately twenty minutes to wait for the police to arrive. Only, we didn't quite know what we were waiting for, as the driver couldn't make an announcement like 'The cops are coming to pick up this crazy man' or anything. A teeny Singaporian girl next to me went up to the front to ask the driver what was going on (after I asked the driver to shut the doors 5 mins earlier cos it's bloody freezing these days, mate), and as she made her way back, the man called her a"f*****g sl*t." Lovely. She then informed me what was going on [SIDENOTE: Victoria Police, what gives? What are you guys all doing on a Sunday night? Texas hold'em? Watching Rove? Trivial Pursuit? Why did it take you 20 minutes to get to Lonsdale St from Victoria Market? Pretty ridiculous, fuzz].

It was right about then (after some slurring about the Sherlock Holmes book his seat-partner was reading) that McCraze decided to bust out a little Yusaf Islam. Yes indeed, when you're drunk on a tram on a Sunday night, you CLEARLY start serenading your fellow passengers with Cat Steven's Father and Son. I believe he was trying to channel 'Just relax, take it eeeeeeeeeasy.'

On a Friday night coming back from Northcote, a 20-year-old-ish couple sat across from me (pseudo Goth/pseudo IT geeks with tragic clothing. Yes, I'm making sweeping generalisations). They talked-- for 20 minutes-- about Second Life and computer games. When we went past a Transformers poster, the girl told the dude she was the blue one, and he said she must be the other one, and they started talking PDA-style indiscernably into one another's faces.. It was at this moment when I really wished I had a tape recorder, but I guess some things just have to be experienced first hand. It also makes me think 'WELP there's someone out there for everyone.' And that is a comforting feeling for all the people out there who wore Airwalks and computer watches in high school. And all of us, let's be serious.

Back to more Crazies. On my way to the city the other day on the 19, a (Cambodian?) woman had a kitten in a zip bag that she called 'her baby' and said 'don't worry we'll be home soon' about 14 times in a 5 minute span. Whilst waiting to board the 112, a chain-smoker informed me he had a vision three years ago there would be a drought. And when he wrote the government to tell them, they never responded. Even more shocking is that they never called to thank him when the drought hit to say he was right. Can you believe it?! How dare they? He then said John Howard was racist, to which I happily agreed. That shut him up. I'm pretty sure he thought I was a Liberal (big L, not little), what with my leather gloves and point shoes and corporate wear. I'm simply a well-dressed Left Winger, thanksverymuch.

When my parents were here and we took the 109 coming back from IKEA (hollaatcha Princess and the Pea bed), a bearded white man paced up and down the aisle singing 'We're on a sloooowwww boat to Chiiiiiina.' I couldn't decide whether to laugh since, yes, it was mighty slow, or ignore him because he was ripping on all the Asians in Melbourne as we barrelled down to Little Saigon, Richmond. This is the problem with Crazy. How do you know when people are genuinely being funny and when to just back away slowly?

I can, however, tell you a time when people are being genuinely funny: when they've drank too much Fruity Lexia. Half of Davis St Massive was not convinced that is all they partook in that night (ahem), but it's just speculation. All I know is, I had to take a photo right then and there to document the funniest people I've ever met in my life on public transport. A whirlwind conversation of El Salvador, Oasis, and goon makes all the Crazies seem worth while.

"Wheredyou get dis from Lizzy? Meheeka?"

Max loves to wear my cowboy boots...

and eat chicken schnitzel on his Shrek plate.

"Look at ma face. AmIbovvered?"

A swanky labyrinth of intrigue and delight awaits you

Ahhh yes, I love South Melbourne. The Victorian homes, the leafy alleys, Clarendon Street, Melbourne's "French Quarter," Father Bob, Town Hall Trivia... it has it all. All that, and an old Victorian home/shop converted into what can only be described as a caberet-theatre-cum-cocktail-lounge filled with tchachkes floor t0 ceiling run by two gay men who love to play said Caberet covers of Hit Me Baby One More Time and Blue by Eiffel 65 and run Burlesque and drag shows in the front room. Or, as the website puts it, "this doll-house sized Windsor Castle of camp kitsch and good times has to be experienced to be believed."

I am speaking-- of course-- about the Butterfly Club. And when my American comrades come visit, they will most certainly experience its glory. Sadly, visitors in '06 did not get to enjoy a Sparkling Sunset cocktail or bask in the glow of the fireplace underneath the creepy, creepy doll collection, because of tight time constraints, but for the RFL and others-- I am making it top priority.

What was meant to be a quick evening catching up with Housie's former housemate + GF:















turned out to be another one of those nights I so love: eating and drinking with a motley crew of Aussies.

We were meant to see the show "The Divine Miss Z Sings the Divine Miss M." Truth be told, we were unsure if this was going to be a drag show. The image on the website was misleading:













Is this a tranny? Is this an abstract/Andy Warhol-ised headshot of Bette circa 1977? So many questions... For a variety of reasons, however, namely, da funds, we all opted to get some drinks instead [SIDENOTE: Catching a glimpse through the theatre's cracks upon our departure ensured we weren't missing much... she was 100% woman. Where's the fun in THAT?!] and chitchat in the back area (underneath the life-size Hustler doll; I'll spare you an image). After our cravings for burgers consumed us (perhaps this is because these are currently the contents of my fridge and pantry: hard-boiled eggs, yoghurt, condiments, crackers, and Weet-Bix), we walked down to the Town Hall (trivia nights!) to find it was $10 burger night! Scorehuge!

And because I told myself I would make this blog as dissimilar to a journal as humanly possible, I will stop describing my night right there. Just know it's nights like these that make me never want to leave.

I'll put some more pictures of the Butterfly Club because really words do not do it justice.

DOLLS!!! AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!




















it's a bar; there are tables and stools





















and obvi mini pagodas and 18th century portraits and Victorian wing chairs






























giving my chock-a-block bedroom a run for its money





















very camp: Ken Doll party inside a Mann Chinese Theater of sorts

So many puns, so little time

King of the Wild Frontieeerrrrrrrr!

Cousin Chick, about whom I could write appropximately 8,953 blog entries, provides me with much entertainment. Much, much, much entertainment. More than I could really get into on this space. But perhaps will eventually. He wears many hats, as I always say. LITERALLY. Chick LOVES costumes and props and acting and comedy, and he only just turned 8.

He plays Gaelic football (huh?), takes Karate, used to take Irish dance (but would never perform for me when I babysat him), and is currently a Cub Scout. He knew the name for all the dinosaurs when he was six. He could retell the story of the crucifixion in preschool ("Poor baby Jesus, you don't know it, but one day, they're gonna nail you to a CROSS") and loves to sing about the snows of Mt Kilimanjaro (which he knows are in Africa). He referred to himself as a "Pachyderm Papa" when Aunt Amy adopted an elephant for him at the Philadelphia Zoo. You see the comedic material here?

I have just been informed (via a purposefully-Comic Sans e-mail from his mother-- OH, CHEERS! NOT.) that he was Davy Crockett for Biography Day at his school (he features on that page obvi), of which Anna Quindlen is a notable alumna. His ex-girlfriend was Amelia Earhart:























Yes, ex. It seems Chick just doesn't have time for the ladies, what with all his extra-curriculars.

Inspiration

Haven't had a good cry in a while?

Simply purchase the Choir of Hard Knocks CD on Itunes (might have to sign in via Australia) and listen to Put a Little Love in Your Heart and Not Pretty Enough (Kasey Chamber's, yeah!) and the tears will flow. Promise. But not sad tears-- more like the tears I experience when I watch Dove's Campaign for Real Beauty commercials or read an article about the US southern town that adopted 20+ Sudanese refugees or Good Weekend's Just the Two of Us about a couple who survived the Holocaust and have been married for sixty years. You know, tears of joy... for the beauty of humanity.

I've missed their show on ABC basically the entire season cos I pretty much didn't know it existed until recently. A shame because everyone heralds it as "THIS is reality television." I blame our craptastic aerial and finicky indoor antenna... Some of the members are well known from selling the Big Issue (UK version cos Oz doesn't seem to have its own website) around town, and some are new to the spotlight.




















33 year old Josephine McKinnon (theage)

Everyone certainly has a story to tell. One woman's husband died five years ago and is now having trouble finding after-school help for her son who has Asperger's. Oh, and she's been blind all her life. She told the Age, "I've never had a more accepting bunch of people around me."

Amazing.

Homesick, PLAYAS

I do get homesick being down here in the Antipodes; it's true. Besides missing my amazing friends and family (obv), there are certain things I really long for after being away from the US for approx 484 days, including, but not limited to, the following:

• Hip-hop lifestyle pervading the mainstream
• WaWa hoagies, soft preztels, and cappucinos
• Quality bagels
• Pumpkin as a sweet, not a savoury
• Jewish delis and kosher pickles from the barrel
• Triscuits
• Cheesesteaks
• Blue Moon
• Yuengling
• Victoria Secret Very Sexy For Her Perfume
• Cheap generic ibuprofen in bulk
• 'Click' deodorant
• Gap
• H & M
• J Crew
• Ann Taylor
• The self sufficiency of my own car (rollin the Honda)
• Non-erratically scheduled television
• Cheap movies (that premiere at the same time as the Northern Hemisphere)
• TLC, MTV, A&E, Comedy Central

The thing that I also miss-- that prompted me to compose this list-- is something I never really acknowledged I liked in the first place. At the stadium where I work, there is general order to the pre-game entertainment. And since I have to stand on an aisle for two hours before the game starts and before most people arrive, I pretty much have this schedule down pat.

1) Britney's Spear's version of 'My Prerogative;' random country singer's verion of 'I Hope You Dance;' Justin Timberlake's 'What Goes Around Comes Around;' Ciara's 'Goodies'
2) last half of an AFL game from 1-3 years previous, features two teams set to play that day
3) the same commercial for Foxtel played approx. 12 times
4) commercial for Toyota
5) safety announcements
6) club offers
7) that bloody Foxtel commercial again
8) classic Australian song of which I do not know the title

And the most important moment in that entire list? The one that swallowed me in a mini rush of homesickness?

Freaking Ciara.



















I literally was like "Aw, Ciara! Senior Year! Nick's phone ring! Sad"

And it's not that I actually miss trashy southern crunk/misogynistic rap music, per se. It's just that I miss watching Cribs and witnessing southern rapers waste their money from their first album on a giant aquarium and tacky leather couches, or being around people who might want to start their own gold teeth business, or dancing to sistas like Ciara at houseparties, or watching Freestyle Friday on 106 & Park.

It's the possibility of hearing Ciara on the radio that I miss, and the hip-hop culture in general. The Aussies are soo not having that down here.

And I have a theory on why that is so, based on nothing empirical whatsoever. There is something here called the Tall Poppy Syndrome, whereby people who have 'made it' get knocked down by the masses for, well, making it. It's a bit of a Catch-22.

For instance, before his wife died and everyone was paranoid about making any bad comments about him, Rove McManus got a bad rep for 'selling out' and hosting his own show on a big time network. Thing is, he put in the hard yards, or as they say here (disregarding the letter R), 'the hahd yahds,' on community TV and worked hard to get where he got.

Still, people are all 'Waaaaah, he's famous! Waaaaah!' Sort of the Hollywood pasttime of building up celebrities so we can bring them down (which we are quite happy to do, I might add), but with a more populist, anti-snobbery approach.

Which is why, I believe, Aussies are not so down with rappers, particularly ones flaunting gold teeth and new money. Boasting is a core component of hip-hop-- it has been since the beginning. You boast about your neighbourhood, your car, your girlfriend, your money, your jewellery (they spell it with 2 Ls here!). It is just not in the Australian collective blood to brag. They are notoriously self-deprecating and laconic, leaving no room for rappers to do their thang.*

Well, as that voice on Little Britain says when referencing Emily Howard or Daffyd Thomas, 'takes all sorts I suppose.' It is what makes Australia Australia. And if that means there won't be too many blokes walking around with gold teeth, well, I guess that's alright with me.

*There are Australian rappers, but as I've said before, their street cred is hard to sell to a savvy US listener. But props where props are due: I enjoy The Hilltop Hoods, and they redid their entire Hard Road album with the Adelaide Symphony Orchestra (a la my precious Ben and his orchestral tour of Oz). And we did see sime fairly good MCs at First Floor the other night, didn't we? Haha

A Sartorial PSA

LEGGINGS

ARE

NOT

PANTS.

They belong to the hosiery, not the trouser, family.

This includes you, 16-year-old female St Kilda supporters who think it's acceptable to wear a larger(er) jersey and your cute new black Wittner boots to the footy. Put on some PANTS. It's cold outside.

Thanks very much.